


handfuls of salt

by PersephoneHemingway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dom John Winchester, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Try This At Home, Edgeplay, F/M, Guilt, Hair-pulling, Heavy Petting, Hurt/Comfort, May/December Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm, Self-Indulgent, Spanking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Fingering, fucking back the will to live, pls tell me how i almost forgot the spanking tag what even am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneHemingway/pseuds/PersephoneHemingway
Summary: You fuck up on a hunt and get into a yelling match with the grumpy legend himself. The resulting guilt draws you back to old habits. When John catches you, he decides to punish you in a different sort of way.





	handfuls of salt

**Author's Note:**

> a little self-indulgent- this is how i used to self-harm. i don't anymore, but these hurt/comfort fics always used to help me feel better and still do. so i figured i'd try writing one.  
but seriously friends, meds are good for you. therapy is good for you.  
now pls enjoy my smut.

You'd been hunting with Sam and Dean for a few years when surprise, surprise, their dad was brought back from the dead.

The Lebanon, Kansas bunker crew only got more complicated from there.

In a move to dodge father/son conflict and alpha male headbutting, you usually paired off with John (and Sam with Dean) when the influx of cases required you all to divide and conquer.

He was decisive, precise, and efficient—a get-in-get-out kind of guy. You liked that he always had a plan—you hated to admit it, but honestly you were good at following orders. You usually kept your inner sub smashed down underneath your layers of hunter's plaid and gunslinger's vitriol, but damn, as if she could resist the dom that was John Winchester.

It took a few months at first for him to acknowledge your skill as a hunter and even longer for him to trust you, but he came around—albeit reluctantly. (He soon found out there wasn't much he could criticize you on when you were a better shot than he was).

But everyone fucks up sometimes, and that's sure as hell what you did tonight in the midst of a two-werewolf shakedown.

John usually took point to take care of the up-close-and-personal monster beatdowns while your sharpshooting ass hung back for long-distance support. It all would've been fine if you'd just stuck to the usual plan.

Instead you'd rushed in too soon and shot too late, and an innocent guy's throat was ripped out by sharp teeth as a result.

Once the wolves had their holes shot through them you went all meek. "I- I thought I had an opening..."

"Get in the truck, (Y/N)."

&

A silent drive, a cheap motel room, and a yelling match later, John had left for the bar and you'd settled in on the bathroom floor, your head in your hands, sobbing.

Highlights of the fight, which ended in a first round knock-out:

_"How could you be so reckless!?"  
_

_"I thought I was fast enough..." You were so soft.  
_

_"But you weren't fast enough, were you? That man's dead because you _thought_ you were fast enough! Your arrogance got someone innocent killed! And what if you or I had gotten hurt too, huh? Did you even _think_!? God, why do I even let you tag along? I hunt better alone."_

&

You'd always taken the losses rough—feelings were not an advantage in the hunting game, and you had way too many of them.

You sat there thinking about all the things you fucked up this time, and any time previously.

How another man was dead from your mistake.

How you'd let John down.

How you were _just too damn cocky, (Y/N),_ and fatally overestimated your speed.

_You fucked up and now he hates you. He doesn't want you around anymore. You deserve pain. You deserve to hurt. You're awful, how can you say you're saving lives when you're such a selfish bitch? You wanna impress John so bad someone _died_ because of it. Get over yourself._

You were starting to _vibrate_ from the intensity of your guilt, and you knew you were going to have to snap yourself out of it. You needed some ice.

You hunted down the communal room with the vending machine, ice maker, and complimentary coffee pot, and shoveled yourself a small bucket of ice. You have about a dozen cylinders of salt in your duffel, so you pulled one out along with a 90s style mickey mouse washcloth from your childhood. You folded the washcloth and set a few ice cubes down before salting them. You pressed the handful of salted ice up against your naked hip and tucked it into the elastic band of your sweats so it'd stay in place. You pressed down on your hip to make penance.

The burning started soon after. It was a so-cold-it's-hot sensation that seared its way into your skin. It was the only thing on your mind. It let you focus and stop the depression from spiraling any further.

Once the initial burst of pain was over and the tingly numbness started to set in, you stopped pushing down on your hip and let your pants do the work. You could breathe again. You went over to the bed with the remote, and you flipped through a couple shitty channels before leaving it on muted static. You stared at the ceiling.

&

When John finally came back he was drunk, and he stumbled over the threshold. You immediately jumped up to help him in, forgetting the ice until the pain of your frostbitten skin pulled and made you wince and grab your hip.

John was quick to sober up when he saw you flinch. 

"Hey wait, sweetheart, were you injured in the hunt? Why did you say anything?"

"N-no John, it's nothing—" He stepped closer, and you stepped back. He looked so worried, and you didn't want him to find out you were only hurt because_ you_ _hurt yourself._

He touched the wet spot down your leg from the melted ice and moved your hand so he could peel down the waistband enough to check your hip. It was mottled red and white and a few bubbles had formed. You knew it would look infinitely worse in about two days.

"The fuck is this, (Y/N)?" He sounded equal parts angry and concerned.

"I, I-it's—" _It's sure not a bruise or a wolf bite..._

"And don't you dare say it's nothing, kid, we both know that's a lie."

"John, I—"

"You hurtin' yourself? Why, 'cause of what I said? You know I don't mean it; you know I'm always better with you around, don't you?" He sounded more afraid by the word. 

He peeked closer, and could see evidence of old oval-shaped ice scars beneath the fresh red.

"(Y/N), baby..."

"I- I'm sorry, I didn't m-mean to disappoint you..."

John wiped one hand down his face before he brought both hands up to cradle your head to his shoulder.

He let you cry it out, petting your hair and rocking you gently until you settled fitfully into sleep. He eased you into bed and held you until morning, taking care not to touch your hip or let you roll over onto it.

&

He’d gone out for breakfast by the time you woke up.

Once you'd wiped the sleep from your eyes and done your morning bathroom routine, you found John sitting straight on the edge of the bed waiting to say something to you.

"You wanna be punished so bad? Okay." He made a vague gesture toward himself.

You cocked your head, not following.

"Over my knee."

"Wha-what? No way.."

"You don't sound so sure, little girl. Maybe you know you deserve to be punished?"

"J-John, what the heck—"

"Get the fuck over here, and put your sweet little ass over my knee before I make you."

Your face burned bright, embarrassed and defiant. He cocked an eyebrow and you caved into a pout, hesitantly taking a step toward him before taking the step back.

John’s face went dark and you nearly flinched.

“You’re pushing it baby girl. You’ve already earned yourself fifteen— did you want me to use my belt instead of my hand?”

“J-john, no!”

“You wanna try bein’ a little more polite, baby girl?”

You opened and closed your mouth. Your voice was soft.

“N-no, sir…”

He smirked.

“C’mon baby, you’ve gotta come take your punishment like a good girl. Can’t have you hurtin’ yourself. I’m in control here— I know what’s best. You listen to me, baby girl, and I’ll make the decisions. I’ll let you know if you’ve been good, or if you need to learn a lesson. I’ll give the pain… and the pleasure…”

You gulped and squeezed your thighs together.

Of course, he noticed. _And he didn’t look so surprised. When had he figured it out, exactly? Your wandering eyes… how you followed him… your need for his approval…_

He crooked his fingers towards you and patted his knee.

“Right up here, baby girl.”

You tucked your chin and shyly scooted closer. He let you take your time until you were in arm’s reach, and then he pulled you down and arranged you to his liking.

“It’ll be twenty, sweetheart, be sure to count out loud for me.”

“Twenty-? B-but-!” And that’s when the first three spanks landed, firm over your thin sleep shorts.

“A-aah!”

“What was that, baby? Didn’t sound like countin’…”

“Th-three…”

“Mm, good girl.”

Despite your injuries, he was by no means going easy on you. He spanked the way you would expect a strict military father to spank, and no matter how much you squirmed you couldn’t escape his firm hand.

He spanked you _hard_ for number four, and it left your ass tingling.

He tugged down your shorts and your panties followed, but he pulled them back up and rubbed where they were already damp with your juices.

“Naughty girl, wet from her daddy’s spanking…”

He took that moment to pull your panties tight between your cheeks, and you whimpered through the wedgie.

“Leave you a little something to clench on to.” You wondered what he meant until your next cluster of spanks came and you reveled in the rough slide of the cloth against your puckered hole and sopping pussy.

“How many, little girl?”

“S-se-seven…”

“Very good.”

You screamed the next two spanks into the white motel pillowcase. He pulled up your head a little by your hair.

“Don’t hide those sweet noises, (Y/N). It warms my belly to hear you cry out… taking your punishment… guided by my firm hand…”

You squeaked when he hit you with number ten, then let out a long unmuffled moan. He grinned at your shouts for eleven and twelve.

He slipped your ruined panties down your thighs but left them at your calves. He dipped his fingers into your folds and stroked until you begged.

“S-sir, please!”

“Please?”

“P-please-!” His hand rained down another five spanks onto your raw red cheeks. You were gasping loud and calling out a number after each hit, but it was the last three that really had you _squealing_. He’d spanked you right on the pussy for seventeen through twenty and you nearly _came_.

“O-oh! S-s-ir,, _pleasepleasepleaseplease—_ Ah- I n-need… t-to…”

“Come?” So smug.

“Mmmm!” You mewled and nodded your agreement.

“My baby girl _needs_ to come?”

“S- sir, _please-!”_

"You wanna come so bad? Do you think you _deserve _it?"

“I- ah, n- n-!”

"_Tell me you deserve it. Convince me you deserve to feel good._”

"O-oh, b-but John I- I don't, I- but if you'd give it to me anyway.. please.."

"Oh no, sweetie. Bad girls don't get to come. So you either admit you deserve to be okay even when you make mistakes, or I leave you here on the edge. Think fast, (Y/N), I don't think you can hold out much longer and I'll be very upset if you come without permission."

The thought of disappointing him _again_ after the disaster of last night _terrified_ you. You reacted the only way you could.

“I d- deserve it! I do! I- I wanna come! I wanna- ooh, please John—”

A spank.

“That’s _sir_, little girl.”

“S- sir…” You called out a few more _sirs_ on a whine.

As the heat in your body increased, your inhibitions slipped away—most notably, you lost your filter when it came to pleasing John.

“I-I’m good for you! So good, John- sir! I- I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’m good! Please, sir, pleASe—!" You lost your ability to speak and began crying out instead, finally giving him a good honest scream as you came, clutching your whole body down and around him, tensing to the edges of your potential elasticity and snapping back to sweet relief in the hardest orgasm of your life.

You could hardly breathe.

"'Atta girl. And you wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

He pet you down from your climax, giving you the space to be soft and sleepy.

"No, John."

"Right. So say it again."

"I- I’m good.."

"Go on."

"I- I’m a g-ood girl… for you… a- at least.. I wanna be…"

He sighed. "That'll do for now, sweetheart." He wrapped you in his arms. "I really care about you, kid. I want you to tell me when you feel like you need to hurt yourself again, can you do that? For me?"

So soft: "I'll try."

"Thank you, sweetheart. You'll never do anything that'll make me hate you, or leave you, or want you hurt, okay? I want you safe and healthy, and as happy as you can get in this life, alright? I won't be mad if you need me to talk you down, but I will be upset if you close yourself off from me and hurt yourself again, got it?"

"Got it."


End file.
